


so i carry her

by kitoky



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5255636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitoky/pseuds/kitoky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary reveals she's figured out Edith's secret, the younger Crawley sister decide enough is enough. She has lost the man of her dreams and she is done hiding her shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i cannot abandon

**Author's Note:**

> Can be considered "fix-it fic" for the series finale episode.
> 
> Title comes from the anonymously written haiku:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _I cannot abandon_  
>  The person I used to be  
> So I carry her

It would have been easy to blame Mary for everything, but however poorly timed and viciously done, the truth would have revealed itself eventually. Perhaps it was simpler to lay the fault all on Mary for once again ruining her chance at some semblance of happiness. But this was not like Sir Strallan with his apologetic self-sacrifice nor Michael Gregson with his well-meaning errors in judgment.

 

She, Edith Crawley, had done this.

_The truth is, my life was about to be perfectly wonderful. And now I’ve… I’ve thrown it all away._

 

She was heartbroken and she was angry. And she had taken it out on Mary, the person she can always so easily direct such spite. Mary, she knew, could handle her turmoil. She was well acquainted with it. Mary was very familiar with heartbreak and resentment and Edith knew they were so despairingly similar in this. As different as night and day, yet strikingly alike.

 

Edith could only release a teary laugh at this self-revelation. The carriage had left the church whisking away Mary and Henry Talbot along with it. She knew the family would come looking for her, for the children, but she didn’t want to leave the quiet field. Edith watched as Sybbie tugged along Marigold in an effort to chase after George. She heaved a great sigh, once again wondering what sort of future Marigold had ahead of her. What Edith was so close to being able to give her. What she had already inadvertently taken away.

 

She saw the joy in her daughter’s face as she delighted in peeking around stone after stone, sneaking away from her cousins. Marigold would scarcely remember this, but her early years were already so uncertain. Edith had gone abroad intending to give away her baby, but she was too cowardly. She had taken Marigold to the Drewes to keep her close. To see her here and there, surely that would be enough. But even then, she was weak. The secret was too much, and they had forced the Drewes out of their homes.

 

She has been terribly selfish, she realizes. Too afraid.

 

Edith Crawley had lived through the Great War. She has seen horrors and survived losses. She has fallen and she has gotten back up. And now, Mary has learned of her greatest shame and she was still there. Living, breathing. Still on her own two feet. The sky had not collapsed, though it felt like it would when she had to watch Bertie Pelham walk away.

 

She had Michael’s inheritance. She runs and co-edits a magazine in London. She had much to lose, but she still had her family. Edith had to take the chance. She had to open up the future for her Marigold.

 

And she had to stop living in fear.

 

 

++

 

 

“What?” Laura stands gaping, cigarette halfway to her lips.

 

“She—“

 

“No, sorry – I did hear you. I just…” Her editor’s face breaks into a smile.

 

Edith’s heart quickens then. Perhaps she’s making a complete mistake. “Oh, please don’t mock.” She glances at Audrey’s equally shocked expression.

 

“My, my,” Laura laughs, leaning back in her chair. “The Lady Edith, who owns and runs her own magazine, has a daughter out of wedlock. Incredible.”

 

“And her editor is a woman,” Audrey inputs.

 

“This is too much. We’re breaking too many barriers too quickly, they’ll burn us for heresy!” The two women giggle and laugh to themselves, and their glee catches as Edith finds herself chuckling along. She was terribly relieved. For a quick second, she thought that perhaps she had overestimated their support.

 

And their love, for Edith is surprised and pleased at how close they had become.

 

“I’m honestly rather glad that you two find this amusing, but it won’t be easy. Once the article is out, they’ll be calling in from all directions, I’m sure.” Edith says seriously. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but this was the first step in coming out of the shadows. No more fears, no more hiding, no more secrets. She had a daughter. Her name is Marigold. And the whole world will know of it.

 

Well, the readership of _The Sketch_ will know of it.

 

“Don’t worry about us. You’ll be the one in the limelight,” Audrey responds. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

 

Edith had been wondering the same, but for nearly two years, she has been plagued by the constant uncertainty. The what-ifs and the worst case scenarios. It was exhausting. She had made up her mind.

 

“Yes. More than anything.”

 

Laura and Audrey exchange proud glances. And this simple gesture fortifies Edith.

 

“Well then, hand it over. We’ll see where we can slip it in.” Laura sits up in her seat, setting her cigarette aside.

 

It was Edith’s turn to gape, her eyes growing wide. Her face melts into an embarrassed smile.

 

“Only I’ve yet to actually write it,” she confesses. All three burst into giggles again, and Billy the errand boy shakes his head as he passes the office outside.

 

 

++

 

 

_Whatever status or station, we all at times reminisce about our long forgotten youth. There is a fondness to the memories. A yearning of simpler times, of a moment in our past that did not frighten us. There is an earnest desire to stay safe in what is familiar, never having to face the changes that tomorrows inevitably bring with it._

_Still, there is a danger in lingering too long. To be too comfortable with the way things are, when they fit your needs. For there will be a moment when the slightest circumstance will require the uncomfortable. A change. If you hold too stubbornly against it, it will do no good. The need for change does not yield. If you are terribly good at avoiding it, it may settle for a respite. But do not lower your guard, for it will return with an even greater vengeance._

_The world is changing and with it all its people. There is little good in resisting, as my dear Papa has since learned. It is difficult to say goodbye to our beloved past, our memories of what has been. As the daughter of the Earl of Grantham, I had very little to complain about upon reflection. To grow up in a grand house, surrounded by servants, always dressed in the prettiest things, and a butler who doted on us as children. Even so, I was not satisfied. I was the middle daughter amongst three of the Lord and Lady Grantham. I was the plain one. ‘Poor Edith,’ I would hear them say from behind tea cups._

_And for some time, I did play my part. I was Poor Edith. Angry and scowling, masquerading petty insults as cleverness. For a little while, this carried me through those agonizing years of becoming a woman. I wanted too much and was given so little. Though no matter how angry, and how spiteful, and how pitiful, it did not save me from heartbreak._

_The world was changing, and Poor Edith could not survive this terrifyingly new place. It is questionable whether Poor Edith had any part in the old one._

_So Poor Edith I was no longer._

 

_It is dreadfully cliché to think one knows the moment everything changed. Like so many other aspects of life, it was gradual. And before I knew it, I saw a different Edith staring back at me in the vanity. However, I do know for certain when it all started. I had written into a magazine – a silly hobby, at first, but then one day someone had written back._

_His name was Michael Gregson._

 

 

++

 

 

“My God…” Cora hears, and she turns on the settee to see an odd sight: her husband holding a ladies magazine.

 

“What is it, dear?” she ventures to ask, wary of Robert’s shocked expression. She hopes he hasn’t just learned the secret of a woman. She’s certain his heart couldn’t bear it.

 

“Rosamund’s sent this along, it’s the latest issue of _The Sketch_ ,” explains Lord Grantham. “Edith’s gone and told the public. Through her magazine!” This makes her rise to her feet, coming straight to Robert’s side to better witness what her daughter has done.

 

“How very daring. I wonder what drove her to do such a thing,” Cora comments, skimming the lines after Robert’s handed her the page.

 

Robert nods, solemnly. “I, for one, am glad for it. Hiding it seemed to do more harm than good. I’m only sorry that Edith had to lose Bertie Pelham to see it.”

 

“You’re one to talk. Not long ago, you would’ve been speechless at such a scandal.” She gives her beloved a look.

 

“Yes, but that was before when Tom was the chauffer and Sybil was still with us. When the most sensible thing was making sure Mary married well. Before Matthew Crawley became part of our lives,” he gently takes Cora’s hand. “Before.”

 

She smiles down at him, “Robert Crawley, you’ve come a long way.”

 

“And you all have helped me along – however much I kicked and screamed.”

 

“Quite a bit,” she smirks, and takes the magazine with her back to the settee. “We’ll soon be getting some inquiries.”

 

“About Edith or about our having tea at Mrs. Patmore’s… house of ill repute?”

 

“I would rather the latter.”

 

“And I, the former.”

 

 

++

 

 

_I took my dear aunt’s advice – who sought to help me in whatever way I wanted to deal with all of it – and I went to Switzerland. There, as the months passed so did my homesickness. I wanted the days to go more quickly – I would have the baby, offer a wonderful and kind couple a child to love, and I would move on with my life. Move on from this dreadful mistake._

_Then one day, she came._

_My beautiful, precious Marigold. She was perfect, and it was then that I truly felt the life –_ the life _– that he and I had made. Michael Gregson helped me become the woman I am today. He encouraged and inspired me. He loved me. And he traveled to a foreign and dangerous country to try and do right by me. Yet I was so close to giving that love he had for me away, giving Marigold away._

_I’ve made many mistakes in life, but I was adamant that this would not be one of them._

_After the great lengths my aunt and I had gone through to conceal the very existence of Marigold, I now had to face the reality that I, the daughter of an Earl, had a bastard out of wedlock. Nothing eased the shame of what I had done, what horrible imaginings I dreamt should Papa and Mama find out. I would be ‘Poor Edith’ yet again. ‘Poor, stupid Edith.’_

_Growing up, I had always wondered if I even belonged to such a family. I had my father’s coloring but none of his charm. I had my mother’s tranquility but none of her elegance. In fact, my sister Mary would sometimes remark how I must be a lovechild of some scandal that Mama and Papa had to help cover up. She even went so far as to suggest I was the daughter of our very Aunt Rosamund. No matter how I screamed my denial at her, something unsettling dug its way deep inside of me. And as I grew, so did that horrid seed fester._

_Even now it stays hidden, in the recesses of my heart and in the darkest corners of my mind. It has accompanied me through my many successes and brought me down with my innumerable blunders. Finally, it has done me in. This devilish infection has led me to perhaps my greatest mistake: lying to a man I love. My omissions, my secrets, my insecurity and uncertainties had cost me his trust and his faith and his love._

_A wise woman once told me: ‘You are being tested. Being tested only makes you stronger.’_

_So here, I write to you – the readers, the public – my terrifying secret, my deepest shame, and my most precious gift. Marigold Crawley is my daughter. She may carry that stigma with her for the rest of her life, but no matter what I vow to love her with all that I am, for all that she is. My most darling daughter._

_I have been tested and I hope – I know – that I am the stronger for it._

 

++

 

 

The Seventh Marquess of Hexham finished reading the most personal article he had ever come across – where he was featured, though unnamed. Lady Edith was kind in that. She knew to name him explicitly would create rumours around him and his newly inherited title. Mother would be most disparaged to be sure.

 

Bertie feels incredibly proud of Edith. It had taken great courage to write something so revealing, to leave herself so vulnerable. She was a remarkable woman – a fact he already knew.

 

As proud as he was for her, he felt incredible disappointment in himself. He thinks back in all their moments of intimacy: how her eyes shone with excitement, mirroring the thrill coursing through him. But there was always a second of hesitation, a flash of self-doubt. Then there were the self-deprecating statements, hints that he bulldozed over in his eagerness for the idealistic version of Edith Crawley that he saw.

 

_Can I help? Am I worthy?_

 

 _I’m not as simple as I used to be_. _My life is not as simple._

 

 _You have a great deal to offer. Only I’m not sure I’m worthy of it_.

 

He had moved too quickly. They’d only properly gotten to know each other just four months ago and he’d already asked for her hand. And in the midst of Peter’s death… the succession. A wonder she was overwhelmed!

 

Edith was struggling against the shadow of herself and he had dropped a heavy load on her: Marry me. Be the next Marchioness of Hexham.

 

 _How idiotic you’ve been, Bertie_. He scolds himself, sighing.

 

An urgent knocking pulls him out of his thoughts. He was still in his home in the village near Brancaster Castle. Mother had already gone up and settled into the castle, eager to give it life again. Bertie dawdled in packing his belongings – as he insisted he do it himself – and to finally make the move to his ‘new’ home. Lord Hexham sets aside _The Sketch_ and makes his way to the door.

 

He isn’t sure who he was expecting at this late hour, but it certainly wasn’t her.

 


	2. the person i used to be

As predicted, _The Sketch_ began getting an influx of subscribers writing in, calling in, and visiting the office – all to put in their say about the Lady Edith Crawley’s bastard daughter. Some nights it was much easier just to spend the night than to brave the way home to her flat. On one occasion, when Edith really must return home, Laura had disguised herself in Edith’s garb, pulling her hat low on her face and led away the crowd of gossipers and photographers while her editor slipped quietly into the night unnoticed.

 

Though shockingly, their subscribership had increased. And on more than one occasion, Audrey had introduced Edith to ladies who had similar experiences. Some with struggling marriages, some who have had affairs, and some who also had children out of wedlock. In no way did she think she was alone in her struggles, but to meet so many who did not judge but understood and sympathized and _knew_. Edith was gratified by this and optimistic, and the naysayers became like white noise in the distance, irrelevant.

 

A terrible weight was lifted.

 

There was a new responsibility, however, to have the admiration of so many and the scorn of others. There was a different kind of pressure on the magazine now. How can they cater to these new ideals and way of life? How can they keep the respect of the old-fashioned? Was it possible? They had to try.

 

‘A juggling act,’ Michael once told her.

 

Edith smiled fondly, understanding now. She sorted through some written captions set to accompany some photographs of romantic scenery in Mayfair, focusing on the arrangement. She was only half aware when Audrey called to her, peeking in from the door.

 

“Mr. Branson is here to see you, my Lady,” she says.

 

Edith nodded her permission to receive her brother-in-law. Had she paid attention, she would’ve noted Audrey’s curious tone and the questionable fact of Tom coming all the way to London to see her. She seemed to be missing a photograph, and she’ll have to talk to Jack when he returned from his run to the shops. Still, there was too much blank canvas so they’ll have to come up with some other content to fill it.

 

“Lady Edith.”

 

In an instant, her heart stops. It’s been weeks since she last heard his voice, and she couldn’t take it if she were to turn and see that it wasn’t actually him. It couldn’t be him. Edith lays her hands flat on the table in front of her, steadying herself. She’d been careful to forget about him, cherishing her memories, but allowing herself to let go. To feel weak in the knees at the mere sound of his voice – it was clear how very little she was able to make peace with their goodbye.

 

He looks apologetic and shy once she willed herself to face him. His hands wring at his hat, and he reminds her of that uncertain gentleman that stopped her that day through the tunnel, asking her to meet for a drink.

 

“I’m sorry for the charade,” Bertie – Lord Hexham – says. “I was afraid you wouldn’t wish to see me. So I took a gamble.”

 

Edith swallowed, looking here and there and back at him, to the rug, before schooling herself. Though her heart was thundering in her chest, she managed to find her voice. “I wouldn’t have turned you away. I was raised to be more polite than that,” she gives a nervous smile. “You look well.”

 

“Well enough,” is his response. “The magazine is booming, I see.”

 

Edith nods, flushing. She had no doubt he had read her article, and wonders if she’d accidentally hurt him again – to tell the world when she didn’t dare tell him herself. Thoughts of that morning at Downton came to mind, and there was a heavy awkwardness between them.

 

“Please, sit,” she offers. She makes a beeline for the door. “I’ll have Audrey get us some tea.”

 

“She mentioned she’d fetch some when she brought me in actually,” he replied, moving closer to the sofa but stood straight legged, no indication of sitting.

 

“Oh,” Edith fumbles again, cursing her lost opportunity to get away and collect herself. She felt silly and small and she hates that onslaught of insecurity. Perhaps she would have sent him away if she’d known. She takes measured steps and sets herself on the end of the sofa, allowing a fair distance as Lord Hexham followed her lead. “How was your Cousin Peter’s service? I wanted to write, but…”

 

“It went as any service would, I suppose. An empty casket as an unnecessary symbol, as I didn’t feel it right to disturb him from a place he so dearly loved,” he says. He seemed resigned to everything, and in a way, it was sadder to see. “In Tangiers, I met a great many people who so obviously loved Cousin Peter. Not as some grand Marquess of Hexham, but as the simple soul I knew him to be. I was glad to know that – that he surrounded himself with a second family.”

 

Something possessed her in that moment: perhaps it was the familiarity at seeing his face again. Seeing the quiet, sweet gestures of the man she was going to marry. Seeing all the curves and lines of his face, the small changes in his expression as he spoke so sadly but so fondly of the former Lord Hexham. Edith found herself reaching out and taking his hand in hers. In comfort, she tells herself. But she doesn’t miss the way his breath hitches, and how his focus is solely on their hands.

 

Slowly, she feels his thumb brush ever so slightly against her fingers and they fall into the familiar ease they experienced in each other’s company. “I must confess,” he begins. “My visit here is entirely for selfish reasons. I’ve missed you terribly, and however many times I focus my attentions on something – anything else – , my mind always seems to wander back to you. At first I thought what a fool I’ve been, to think we had something special and true. That we trusted each other, that we loved each other.”

 

“But we did. _I_ did love you, agonizingly so.”

 

“Yet you did not tell me – from the start you should have told me.” Bertie takes both her hands in his, drawing himself closer. “I reacted poorly when your sister revealed everything. And I believe my hurt prevented me from properly seeking an explanation. Whatever your secret, you were still the kindest, most beautiful, most interesting woman I’ve ever met, and I should’ve listened more closely to you.” She flushes.

 

“I didn’t know how to tell you, not for lacking of trying. There was always something that stopped me.” Edith admits.

 

Bertie sighs, understanding. “And my proposal, how I pushed it. I shouldn’t’ve pressured you. You never even said a proper yes.”

 

“I wanted to,” she looks down at their hands. “How badly I wanted to. Though I knew I couldn’t without telling you about Marigold first. The thing is,” she pauses. “I have a confession as well.”

 

“Another one?” Bertie teases.

 

Edith’s heart swells. A laugh escapes her and she’s reminded of how she loves him so. “I have to confess I had resolved to tell you. But then the news of your Cousin Peter came…”

 

“I was afraid of that,” he nods. “Poor conduct on my part, I am sorry.”

 

Edith smiles away the needless apology. “I was determined on being invisible, forgotten Edith for the rest of my days. I was very content with the idea of marrying Mr. Bertie Pelham, the agent. Keeping Marigold in that simple life would’ve been wonderful, and I would’ve wanted you to know the truth of course. And then Cousin Peter died, and that meant you weren’t a simple land agent anymore. Which meant the truth of Marigold … _means_ much more now. I didn’t want to create hardship for you … and your mother.”

 

“The greatest hardship that I’ve been through was losing Peter and you all in one go,” he says, eyes resolute. Edith believes him, for all that her heart could let her hope. She could not think that Bertie would take her back, but to know that he still cared – she felt better about them than when they parted weeks ago.

 

“As for my mother…” Bertie clears his throat. “You mustn’t pay too much mind. I love my mother, but I also know all her eccentricities. I can stand up to her, you know.”

 

Edith looks down at her hands, gripping at her skirt. Bertie notices those tell-tale signs of unease. Ones he’s seen many times before, ones he’s learned to pay attention to now. “That was part of it, too, wasn’t it? Talk of my mother. I’ve spoken harshly of her and frightened you.”

 

“Yes,” Lady Edith concedes. No more omissions, denials. The truth.

 

The Marquess laughs, a sound filled with both mirth and anguish. “It seems we’ve both made a mess of things.”

 

“I daresay my part contributed more.”

 

They jump as the door to the office opens – Audrey bustling in with the tray of tea, throwing Edith a look to say ‘give me a sign and I’ll have him out in an instant’. After Edith offers her a satisfied smile, Audrey leaves them. As Edith fixes up a cup, Bertie tells her of another surprise.

 

“Your sister, Mary, came to see me in Northumberland,” he watches her freeze in an instant, her back to him. “Gave me a shock too. Said she and Henry Talbot were ‘driving through’ on their honeymoon. Only Mr. Talbot had some other matters that day, and she made the trip herself.”

 

“I hope she didn’t do anything too terrible,” she swirls around to find Bertie slipping closer to her. Edith’s heart thuds wildly in her chest, the sound in her ears distracting her from hearing much else. The edge of the desk is solid against her backside and she grips the edge like it was a lifeline.

 

“She didn’t. In fact, she was quite pleasant I thought. Lady Mary apologized for her behavior during my last visit to Downton.”

 

Edith scoffs, “That doesn’t very much sound like her.”

 

“Nevertheless she did apologize, and she seemed rather contrite. Or… as contrite as Lady Mary can be.” He conveys.

 

“You don’t know Mary like I do,” Edith scowls, tilting her head. “It’s complicated between us. It’s too little to say we just don’t get on. Sybil was the only one to really comprehend, I think.”

 

“I’d like to,” he says, now only inches in front of her. “Rather, I’d like to better understand your relationship. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying if I have to.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“That Mary asked that I give you a second chance,” he offers his trademark uncertain smile. “The problem is, I was hoping more that you give _me_ a second chance.”

 

Edith couldn’t decide what was more astonishing to hear. That Mary had sought to get Bertie Pelham back on her behalf, on her honeymoon no less, or that _he_ wanted _her_ forgiveness. She couldn’t think over the hammering of her own heart, the sudden swarm of butterflies fluttering in her stomach. This was an impossibility. They had said their goodbyes – parted ways – that morning at Downton. Be that as it may, Bertie Pelham came to see her today and asked to have her back. _Please, Lord, let this not be some other trickery_ , Edith silently prays. She slips past him to set herself in a nearby chair, bracing a knee with one hand. Bertie watched her with great anticipation, hardly daring to breathe.

 

“I’ve upset you,” Bertie frowns, kneeling before her.

 

“No, no,” replies Edith. “I just—“ she grapples at the words through the whirlwind of her thoughts. “Why would you ever want me again after what I did?”

 

“Because after reading what you wrote in your issue, I understand now. The Edith I knew and the Edith you are were never really the same. But I see you now. _The Edith_ you are. You once said you aren’t as simple as you used to be. Well,” he says, eyes shining – deploring her to believe him. “ _I_ am not as simple as I used to be. But however simple our life would have been or how complicated it’s bound to be now… I can’t imagine living it without you by my side.”

 

She places a hand to her lips and closes her eyes, trying to tame the hope surging from within. “Oh, Bertie,” she captures his eager eyes with hers. “Surely your mother would be against us. You must have told her of Marigold.”

 

“I did,” says the marquess. “And while she has… protested, I wouldn’t cede. She’d preferred if I married Adele since she was already set to marry Peter. I said I wouldn’t, because although Cousin Peter had other… tendencies, I genuinely love someone else. I said: I want no one but Edith Crawley, middle daughter of the Lord and Lady Grantham – the one they call ‘Poor Edith’.” His tone is teasing again, and she laughs through her tears, feeling utterly touched by his attention to detail.

 

It’s true, no one did know her like Bertie does. Everything he has done has shown that he delights in knowing the true Edith. The newly unburdened Edith.

 

“And your Marigold,” he grows serious. “I have seen how you love her so, with good reason. Marigold is a part of you, and therefore – if you allow me the honor – I hope she can be a part of me too. I shall love and care for her, and call her my own.”

 

It was then that tears escaped her unbidden, her ability to control herself nonexistent. She manages to clutch both his hands in one of hers, while the other hastily wiping at her eyes. After several moments, Edith cradles his warm cheeks in both of her still damp hands which shook from her own disbelief and unbridled yearning. “I am wholly undeserving of you.”

 

“I won’t accept that sort of talk from you any further,” he chastises. “You loved me as a small land agent with no real prospects. You were steadfast by my side in the wake of Cousin Peter’s passing. Least of all, you are the daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Loyalty and good standing; even my mother could not argue against those qualities.

 

“Lady Edith Crawley – owner of _The Sketch_ , daughter of the Sixth Earl of Grantham, _mother of Marigold_ – please honor me by being my wife,” Bertie Pelham grandly proposes. “And I shall wait for a proper yes this time. Though if the answer is no, and I daresay I’m not a terribly prideful man, but even I couldn’t bear the—”

 

He isn’t able to finish, as Edith had silenced him with a kiss. She pushed all thoughts of titles and inheritances and secrets and potentially frightening mother-in-laws out of her mind. Edith thought only of one thing: of that dear man she met while out on the shoot at Brancaster, of the nervous gentleman who asked her for drinks, of the quiet support during the hectic night to meet the print deadline, of every soft kiss stolen in private.

 

Bertie Pelham was a good and kind and honest man, as forthcoming about his life as an open book. He had dug in and helped at Downton’s open house. Jumped in by a burning racecar to reassure her sister that Henry Talbot was not the one aflame. Edith had faith in his every vow, knew his promises and his intentions to be true.

 

She pulls back after giving him one last peck, her thumb brushing his cheek just so as she peered straight into his anxious gaze. Nothing held her back now.

 

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intended to do 2 parts, but this scene ran away from me so there's 3 parts now. It's good when conversational scenes feel very organic and keep going without much force or drive. I hoped that their voices seem natural to their characters.


	3. so i carry her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legit fix-it fic. All of the messes of Edith's life had to be fixed if she were to deserve her happy ending. So I had to sort that out first.
> 
> And suddenly, there's gonna be an epilogue.
> 
> 3/4 completed. Merry Christmas!

Despite Edith’s acceptance of Bertie’s proposal a week ago, they agreed to wait to announce it in the papers – or tell their families. “Is it very cruel of me to want to keep them wondering?” Edith ponders one evening over dinner.

 

“I shouldn’t think so,” Bertie answers. “If the news is a happy one.”

 

“It is,” she beams. “A very happy one.”

 

“Besides, I’ve learned my lesson about… rushing things,” says the Lord Hexham.

 

“Papa was so thrilled about the prospect of our almost-engagement before, one would’ve thought it was he you were proposing to,” they enjoy a laugh together.

 

They were having a quiet evening in at Edith’s flat before Bertie left for the train station the next morning. She kept the flat empty for her own use instead of staying with Aunt Rosamund, though she thinks her aunt has felt rather lonely without Edith’s many visits. Lady Edith enjoys the quiet and solitude, she finds. Something she didn’t think was possible. So she opened up the flat, slowly filling it with little trinkets, necessities. Finally, the place feels well and truly hers. Not the daunting flat of her lover, or the temporary base of some stranger passing through. It seemed like a home away from home now.

 

Her new cook slips into the room, “Will you require anything else, milady?” Mrs. Clowes asks. Edith had decided that with the fair amount of time she’d been staying in London to co-edit _The Sketch_ , it was only practical to hire on some staff to help. But with a flat so small that required very little maintaining, a cook was really all she needed.

 

“Is it really so late?” Edith glances at the clock, “No, I think we can take care of it all from here. Thank you, Mrs. Clowes.”

 

“Good night, milady. Milord,” the older woman quietly exits, leaving Edith and Bertie alone once again.

 

“Will you bring Marigold up to London?” Bertie asks, taking their platters to the kitchen. She follows him with glasses and silverware in hand, propping the door open for him to pass through.

 

Edith hums while she thinks, “Honestly, I’ve been rather undecided about it. I thought to, before. But now that we’re intended, I don’t think it’d be right for me to take her away from Downton and then eventually take her away from here after she’s settled.”

 

“Because you’ll be coming to Brancaster in the end,” he completes her thought.

 

“Yes, she’s moved from home to home from the moment she was born…” they set the dishes and wares on the table.

 

“From loving home to loving home,” her fiancé corrects and gives her a comforting peck on the cheek.  

 

“Thank you for saying that,” she watches as he starts to roll up his sleeves. “What are you doing?”

 

“Cleaning up, of course.” He answers quite plainly.

 

“You’re the Marquess of Hexham now,” Edith says, as though he needed this reminder. “You don’t have to do things like clean the dishes anymore.”

 

Bertie throws her a playfully sad look, “I’ve been banned from it at Brancaster, now don’t tell me you’ll forbid it of me here too. I didn’t think it’d be so different, having servants do everything for me. If I can manage little things on my own, it reminds me of how I lived before. It’s oddly soothing.”

 

She watches him with affection as he sets to work, running water, and looking for the soaps in the dim lamplight. Slowly, she unbuttons the cuffs of her sleeves and starts to do them up just as Bertie did. “I remember Tom having the same sentiments when he first lived with us – as part of the family, I mean. He was our chauffer for a time. It was difficult for him, I think, especially without Sybil there to help ease him in.”

 

“Ah, so it’s been proven possible before,” he jokes. Bertie scrapes the leftover food into the rubbish and scrubs the dishes while Edith patiently waits with a drying towel. “Managing the estate has always been my job, so that part hasn’t changed. It’s mostly the formalities and platitudes that are surprisingly hard to cope with. Having people actually see you for the first time after having known them for so long. I’ve only ever been known as ‘the agent’.”

 

_Hello?_

_Bertie Pelham. We met at Brancaster when it was lent to Lord Sinderby._

_Of course! I’m sorry to be so dense. I remember you very well. You’re the agent. Or, you were then._

Edith studies the outline of his face in the dim light, thinking back on how she could’ve ever thought of him as only ‘the agent’. He’s become so much more now. She’s certainly become rather attached.

 

“How unfortunate for them, to have missed the chance of knowing you,” Edith says. “I was nearly unlucky to have made the same mistake. Thankfully I was marching through the tunnel that day.” She catches his shy smile.

 

“Normally I wouldn’t’ve had the courage,” he hands her a dripping plate. “But something took hold and suddenly I was shouting ‘Lady Edith Crawley?’. The look on your face. You must’ve thought me a madman.”

 

“I thought no such thing,” denied Edith. “Mary would say not many things are stranger than an honest man calling my name.” She freezes as Bertie leans against the edge of the sink, staring at her intently.

 

It was a game he would play, and no matter how uncomfortable it made her, he refused to let up. Whenever he’d find that she’s spoken badly of herself or think of what mean snipe Mary would say, he’d make a show of it by staring her down. ‘You’re a champion for women now,’ he’d said. ‘It’s time you championed for yourself.’

 

She flushes under his gaze now, and rolls her eyes to show him she’s acknowledged that she misspoke. Satisfied, he finished up his task, covered in water and suds up to his elbows. She hands him another cloth, while she finishes drying the last wineglass. Edith sets it back in the cabinet and looks back to find him smiling at her, the cloth hanging off one shoulder. Perhaps it was the wine or the light or the shine in his eyes, but she hears herself saying---

 

“Won’t you stay tonight?”

 

He moves closer to her, a teasing look on his face. “Now that most certainly sounds like an indecent proposal.”

 

Edith laughs, happy that she doesn’t feel a bit salacious about such banter. Bertie takes her by the arms and kisses her, deep and loving, but not the kind of kiss she so yearns for. The hand on his arm finds the band he bore in mourning, her fingers fiddling with its edge. He pulls back, and she sees that he wants more as well.

 

“I should go,” he sighs. “Though you are quite a temptress.”

 

She tugs the dishcloth off his shoulder, folding it needlessly just for something to do. “I’ll miss you terribly.”

 

“No more than I will miss you,” he responds, readjusting his shirtsleeves. “You should come to Brancaster. For a visit.”

 

“How very modern. The woman traveling a ways to see her beau. But won’t that be very suspicious?” Edith raises a brow.

 

“Well, we are seeing each other, aren’t we?” he shrugs. “It’s the engagement that we’re keeping hushed up.”

 

“I suppose,” she agrees. “Let me finish up business here first and then decide.” She follows him through to retrieve his dinner jacket and hat.

 

“That’s fair,” he nods as he pulls on his coat.

 

“I’ll see you off at the train station tomorrow,” Edith says.

 

Bertie frowns. “There’s no need for that. Seven o’ clock is rather early to be going out just to see me off. And in the cold.”

 

“I’d like to,” she smiles. “Besides, it’d give me a start at the office as well. The sooner I’m finished, the sooner I can go home to see Marigold.”

 

He sighs, giving in. “I can’t argue with such rationality. I won’t protest to seeing you again before I’m gone either.” One last peck, “Good night, my Edith.”

 

 _My Edith_. That was also something entirely Bertie ever since they had made up. While Michael had called her ‘darling’ and Sir Anthony had nicknamed her ‘sweet one’, with Bertie it is always ‘my Edith’. It was his endearment for her but also a reminder that she was her own person, and that he sees her – the Edith she is.

 

“Good night,” she bids farewell. “My Bertie.”

 

 

 

++

 

 

 

 _From loving home to loving home_.

 

That simple phrase had occupied her thoughts with surprising frequency, and not with the same warm contentment that first accompanied the words. Edith thought of Mr. and Mrs. Schröder, who were kind and knew very little of the true identities of Lady Rosamund and Lady Edith. Their excitement for the baby was apparent, and their eagerness was infectious. She truly wanted to offer them what they could not have – something she thought she did not want.

 

But then she came back and Edith remembers the crestfallen faces of the Schröders when she appeared at their door. She was inconsiderate of their feelings – blinded by her eagerness to take Marigold. To never allow an ocean to be between them again. Lady Edith had revealed who they were, she and Aunt Rosamund; daughters of great and important Earls of foreign Britain. The couple had no choice. They said their farewells to the babe they had hoped would be their own.

 

“I’m sorry,” Edith had uttered, before turning away – holding the infant in her arms as she shuffled towards the car. She remembers how the Schroders had stood in the cold watching as she took their daughter away – watched long after they started down the path, watched long after they were gone.

 

The sudden rocking of the train car jar her out of her thoughts, and she heaves a sigh. Strange to think she still mulled over these memories even after writing her confession for the magazine. Aunt Rosamund had told her they did find a child to love, and she tells herself that it ended well for them – however sorry she was to wrong them so.

 

Blurry trees and plains passed as her mind wandered further to where Marigold’s next home had been: Yew Tree Farm. There she saw bits of her daughter growing up – but always glances, never a full picture. The visits were never long enough and too far between. Edith was lucky to get even that much, with the secret knowledge and help of Mr. Drewe. She had owed that man everything. He’d agreed to take in another child, another mouth to feed in addition to his own family, and kept his promise to secrecy once he’d discovered the mystery.

 

Yet her shame had driven them from their home, a place they’d made for themselves after taking on the farm after the late Mr. Drewe. They were a benefit to the estate, a success with their pig farming. Timothy Drewe had fought so hard for keep his father’s land. In the end, they were forced to leave all for doing what she had asked of them: give my daughter a home, love her where I cannot. Mrs. Drewe had done just that. She’d offered Marigold an excess of love and Edith hadn’t even bothered to bid them goodbye, an apology. She’d given that to the Schroders at the very least.

 

She grips her bag, blinking back tears of remorse and self-reproach. Edith could only explain such selfishness by her paralyzing need to fight for her own – the only daughter she thought she would ever have. However she reasoned, her behavior was still terribly self-centered. Edith had hurt a great number of people, Marigold worst of all, whether her daughter would know it or not.

 

Edith steels herself as the train pulls into the Downton railway.

 

Her future seemed brighter now after rectifying her relationship with Bertie. But she couldn’t forgive herself if she allowed herself to sail into the sunset without making amends.

 

A new start. A clean slate.

 

 

 

++

 

 

“Your Ladyship,” Edith stops in her tracks upon hearing the address. She was on her way down to dinner so she was surprised to turn to see Barrow.

 

“Is something the matter?” she asks, knowing he ought to be downstairs preparing the dining hall.

 

Barrow’s face conveyed nervousness, but stood with an air of feigned confidence. Edith remembers hearing of his hidden secrets and anguish, leading to the attempt on his own life shortly after she rushed off to London in her heartbreak.

 

“I wondered if I might have a moment of your time,” he inquired, donned in his full dinner dress.

 

“A moment, certainly. Longer than that then I’m afraid we might be delaying the others,” Edith concedes, with only a hint to his position.

 

Barrow nods, agreeing. “Only I’ve been looking for work for some time, per Mr. Carson’s insistence.”

 

Edith shoots him a puzzled look. “Lord Grantham told me you were welcome to stay.”

 

“Yes,” Barrow chooses his words wisely. “For a time.”

 

She feels awkward now, unsure of what he wanted of her. “I was sorry to hear of … what happened. I’m happy to know you’re on your feet.” Edith recalls the night of the fire although she didn’t remember much of the actual event. She woke in a chair outside in the cold, feeling winded and tired, with the voice of her mother telling her she was all right. Later, they told her she had Thomas Barrow to thank for carrying her out of the smoke. She never did thank him after it all. Once again, she had been too focused on her own grief over Michael – what she would or wouldn’t do about Marigold. Barrow, another name to add to her list of regrets. “If I can do anything…”

 

“Actually, my lady, I was hoping – should there be a future for you at Brancaster – if you would be open to the idea of… allowing me to continue to serve you,” he had kept his gaze respectful until the last bit when he looked directly at her. She was shocked, as it was rather presumptuous to make such a request and certainly assuming that Lord Hexham would marry her. Yes, she and Bertie were once again engaged, but Barrow had no knowledge of that and should not have acted on such regardless if it were true.

 

Edith sighed, placing a hand on the railing beside her. Even with her recent experiences tackling problems arising at the magazine, she continued to be taken off guard by new ones. “Are you not happy at Downton? You’ve been here for so long.”

 

“You know what they say, my lady… ‘You have to let go before you can move forward.’”

 

Yes, there is wisdom in that. Wasn’t she trying to do the same? Edith asked her father if he knew where the Drewes had ended up. She was certain he would see that they were well settled somewhere, even if she did not have foresight to do it herself. Edith wanted to pay them a visit, though she is uncertain of what she would say or do.

 

She would never know what hardship had driven Barrow to do such a ghastly thing, but she could understand the need to bury ghosts and starting anew.

 

“It is not my place to decide who Brancaster employs,” she begins. “I hope you will keep these suggestions to yourself—.”

 

“Of course, milady.”

 

“ –but if there is a Brancaster in my future, though I won’t presume there is given my recent scandal, I shall _consider_ speaking to Lord Hexham of the idea.” Edith starts down the stairs, “You ought to return before Carson misses you.”

 

“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”

 

She hears his footsteps leading to the servants’ stairwell and exhales deeply before braces herself for dinner as the only unmarried Crawley in the household.

 

 

 

++

 

 

 

“Come, Peter, listen to your mother,” Timothy Drewe called across the table, his daughter on his lap playing with her colors. “You, too, darling. Go on and wash up for supper.”

 

Both children leap down from their seats with only a groan from Peter, to make their way to the sink. Margie took Billy’s hand and led him to wash as well, while Timothy took the food to the table.

 

He and Margie were fussing over the little ones eating what was on their plate when a knocking sounded. They had moved to a cottage in Ripon after leaving Yew Tree, though they share the space with another family downstairs. Mr. Drewe can only assume that was them knocking. He made his way down the stairs to the front, unprepared to see the face waiting for him.

 

“Lady Edith,” he breathes. She smiles compunctiously and greets him. Moving had been hard on his family. He had to find work in the new city with his only skills as a farmer, and Margie managed to find service cleaning houses, but it’s tiresome work. They were still coping, and every day he missed his home at Yew Tree. Mr. Drewe felt an inkling of agitation at seeing the woman whose troubles hurt his family. “I’m sorry, my lady. I think it’s better you leave.”

 

Lady Edith’s face falters, but she still manages a smile. “You’re right. I have no right to show my face after all that’s happened, but that’s why I’ve come. With Marigold.” She looks down to her side, and it dawned on him that she held someone’s hand. Little Marigold. The girl looked at him expectantly, as if in recognition and expectation.

 

“Well hello, Miss Marigold,” he smiles, affection filling him at the sight of her.

 

“I’ve done you terrible wrong, and I’d like to make up for it. If you’ll let me. If your wife will let me.” Edith says.

 

“His Lordship has already done enough for us,” Mr. Drewe replies. “We’ll be fine.”

 

“Please,” Lady Edith pleads.

 

It’s inexplicable the pull she seemed to have. He had a difficult time denying her cries for help. It would be easy to have the same contempt for the privileged daughter of the Earl as Margie did, especially given their fate in order to hide her scandal. But there was always some sad look in her face, even when she tried to hide it with formalities and apathy. She was a woman always adrift and lost, struggling to stay on the right path.

 

“Have you had dinner?” he submits, stepping aside to allow her to enter.

 

“Yes,” she answers as she led Marigold in. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. We can wait while you finish.”

 

He leads her upstairs, the light in the stairwell dim. She can see that the place was cramped, and she pulled Marigold onto her hip to more easily navigate the climb.

 

Mr. Drewe hesitates before opening the door to enter the flat, but he locks eyes with his wife the moment he does – Lady Edith and Marigold close behind him. Mrs. Drewe is on her feet immediately, while the children call out hello to Lady Edith and Marigold. The three grown-ups stand facing each other at the door with Mrs. Drewe staring intently at Marigold in Edith’s arms. “Say hello, Marigold,” Edith says.

 

Her daughter, who had been looking around the home and the other children, turn to Mrs. Drewe then, “Hello, how do you do.”

 

Margie laughs, warmed by the girl’s greeting. “What a polite lady you are.”

 

Mr. Drewe gestured to the rocking chair in the corner. “Have a seat, milady. There isn’t much space I’m afraid.”

 

She does just that, setting Marigold on her lap. Mrs. Drewe sits across from her, eyes focused on the girl in her arms. The children had all but forgotten their food, and wandered over to see the sister who left them.

 

Edith gently set Marigold down and allowed the children to lead her off to play. “I knew you must be missing her,” Edith says, mostly to Mrs. Drewe. “I think she misses your family as well.”

 

Margie gave Edith a look of surprise. “Is this some sort of laugh? You bringing her here to tease us all again. You wanted her to yourself and now you have.”

 

“I am very sorry for my behavior this past year. It’s been terribly unfair of me. I was… wrong to have kept this secret from you.” Edith apologizes, contrite.

 

“My lady…” Mr. Drewe begins.

 

“No, what are you on about?” Mrs. Drewe demands. Mr. Drewe looks away, uncomfortable. “What have you been keeping from me?”

 

“Marigold… is my daughter. She is my blood,” Edith finally confesses, and she sees the blood drain from Mrs. Drewe’s face. “I was too ashamed to claim her before, but then I found I could not bear to give her up.”

 

The other woman was silent for a moment, looking on towards Marigold across the room. Edith and Mr. Drewe exchanged glances, unsure of how his wife would react. “We had to move a whole city away,” Mrs. Drewe utters. “Because you were afraid of your little secret coming out. Was that it? Timothy told me it was because the estate couldn’t afford our farm -- that they had to sell it. I believed it – given the money His Lordship offered us.”

 

“Yes…” her husband confirms.

 

“I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, for Marigold.” Edith says. “Truly. I’ve treated you horribly all because you made a home for her.”

 

“You have wronged us,” Mrs. Drewe nods accusingly at Edith. “We left our life back at Yew Tree. Our family in Downton. All because you’re fortunate enough to be a high-born slut.”

 

“Margie!” Mr. Drewe scolds. “Children! Go on and play in the room now.” Though confused, Peter leads them off.

 

“I won’t be silent no more!” Margie cries. “You’ve destroyed our lives! You took Marigold away and drove us from our home.” Edith is tense under the barrage of insults and closes her eyes to steady herself. Mrs. Drewe spoke only truths, while Edith had spun so many lies to protect herself. “I’ll have your secret out. Everyone will know!”

 

Mr. Drewe looked pointedly at his wife. “You’ll only be hurting Marigold, Margie.”

 

At that, his wife falters in her anger. She looks down, listening towards the playful giggling of the children in the other room.

 

Edith watches Mrs. Drewe’s calculating face. “And the thing is… I’ve already gone public with it.” The Drewes spin their heads towards her, astonished. “In last month’s issue of my magazine. I couldn’t be afraid anymore. I couldn’t – for Marigold’s sake.”

 

“Very good, milady.” Mr. Drewe smiles.

 

His wife was harder to please. “Well what does it mean now? If everyone knows your secret, won’t we have the farm back? There’s no reason to keep us away then?”

 

Again, Lady Edith looks apologetic, and any hope the Drewes had dissipated. “I’m afraid not. I’m not too aware of the business of the estate, but I believe there is new tenant at Yew Tree.”

 

“Who?” Mr. Drewe asks, curious.

 

“Mr. Mason. He had a farm at the Darnley estate, only it was recently sold,” Edith explains.

 

Mr. Drewe nods. “I remember. He’s a good man. Said he knew my father.”

 

“But that’s our farm!” Mrs. Drewe exclaims. “By rights, we ought to have it back.”

 

Edith looked helpless. She would give anything to let the Drewes come back to their home, but Mr. Mason had already settled in. She couldn’t offer them anything as repayment. Only her worthless apologies.

 

She takes a deep breath, thinking of Bertie and his constant reminders to have faith in herself. Focus on what she can do instead of what she cannot.

 

“Margie…” Mr. Drewe sighs, settling himself in a chair. “There’s nothing to be done.”

 

“How can you just give up? You hate this every bit as much as I do,” Mrs. Drewe states.

 

Lady Edith grips her hands in her lap. She thinks of what she has, what she can give.

 

“I have a flat,” Edith blurts. She starts to shake, because she isn’t sure what she means to do. Only she can’t stop speaking. “Michael Gregson… Marigold’s father. He left me… along with the magazine, a flat in London. It’s rather large -- I know it isn’t what you may want. I can’t… give you your family back.”

 

“It’s a kind offer, Lady Edith,” Mr. Drewe answers. “But we’re far enough from our home. London… it’ll be like a different country to us simple folk.”

 

Edith nods. “I’m sorry.” By now, she feels like the words have lost its meaning. She looks over at Mrs. Drewe, who held her head in her hands, shaking back and forth. Edith felt herself move to the other woman’s side and takes a hand in hers, forcing Mrs. Drewe to look at her.

 

“I’ll always be grateful for everything you’ve done. You loved my Marigold. You gave her everything you could. She has been lucky to have that. I’ve been lucky for that. So I’d like to ask you one last favor,” Edith swallows.

 

Margie Drewe stares her down, and Edith knows she is ready to reject her. The woman was finished with helping her. But she hopes what she is about to offer her will appease her anger and assuage her pains.

 

“I’d like you to be Marigold’s godmother.”

 

Mrs. Drewe is gobsmacked. But the doubts crept in soon enough. “You’re having me on.”

 

“No, truly.” Edith insists. “Though not legally, I’m sorry to say. But I’d like for her to know you – and your family. We could visit often.”

 

“Once a week?”

 

Edith holds her breath, gladdened by her eagerness. “Yes,” she smiles. “I think we could manage it.”

 

Bertie enters her mind and her face wavers. Mrs. Drewe doesn’t miss it. “What is it? Don’t you mean it?”

 

“Yes, yes. Of course,” Edith reassures. “Only my future is set for some… drastic changes. I may eventually leave Downton, and Marigold with me.” Mrs. Drewe starts to narrow her eyes. “But I promise, I will do all I can to bring Marigold. If not, I’ll be sure to write.”

 

“What sort of changes, milady?” Mr. Drewe asks.

 

Edith hesitates. There can’t be harm in telling them. “Mr. Bertie Pelham – the new Marquess of Hexham – well, I’ve accepted his proposal of marriage. His seat is Brancaster Castle in Northumberland. It’s fairly distant but – oh.” She’s suddenly aware of the position she will soon find herself in. Barrow’s voice runs through her head. ‘ – _future at Brancaster_ – ’

 

“If there’s any openings there – perhaps,” Edith rambles. “I know it’s even farther than London, and you don’t want that. But it’s something – a life you’re familiar with, at least.” She offers weakly.

 

Mr. Drewe gives her a hopeless smile, but Mrs. Drewe looked pleased at the idea. Perhaps being close to Marigold was enough. “We’d be grateful for any help, my lady.” he cedes.

 

The tension between them all had dissolved considerably. For that, Edith was thankful. She and Marigold were able to stay for coffee, but had to quickly rush to take a bus back to Downton. “She’ll be quick to sleep on the way, I’m sure.” Edith says, picking Marigold up. They say goodbye to the children, and Mrs. Drewe kisses Marigold good night.

 

“Thank you, milady.” Mrs. Drewe utters on Edith’s way out.

 

Lady Edith stops, holds the other woman’s gaze meaningfully. “Thank you.”

 

 


	4. epilogue

Shortly after Bertie had confronted her at the office in London, she’d rushed home to Downton eager to seek out Mary (to everyone’s surprise). Her search leads her to the cottage where Mary and Tom go about their business of the estate. “Edith! We didn’t know you’d be home today,” Tom greets her, looking pleased. She always counted on Tom to make her feel loved, even as a sister. Mary looks up, equally surprised.

 

“I wanted to see Mary, actually,” Edith says, and she wasn’t sure who looked more shocked. There was a moment of stillness, as no one seemed to know what to make of this.

 

Tom took up his jacket, “I’ll leave you ladies to it then… See you back home for tea?”

 

They nod their goodbyes to their brother-in-law, and Edith situates herself in the chair across from Mary. “Crikey, should I be concerned?” her big sister asks. Edith looks around, not knowing how to broach the subject. “Oh, just come out with it.”

 

She isn’t surprised by Mary’s impatience, she never did have an abundance of it. “Bertie Pelham came to see me in London.”

 

“Did he?” A subtle rise of her brows. “Interesting.” She suddenly needed to occupy her hands, and takes up her cup of coffee. It doesn’t fool Edith one bit.

 

“He said you had paid him a visit.”

 

And with that, Mary throws her cup down. “Honestly, why can’t men ever keep a secret? I asked him specifically not to tell you.” Edith fights her grin.

 

“But why did you do it?” Edith asks, brows furrowing.

 

“Because I knew you’d never leave it be,” Mary sighs, settling herself against the back of the chair. “Truthfully… it was what you said that day Mr. Pelham left Downton. Well, what everyone said really – or shouted at me. I was dreadfully unhappy that Henry had left me. It was my own fault, of course, but – I couldn’t see that.” She pauses. “I was jealous, of you and Bertie. And I was sorry.”

 

“That doesn’t explain why you went all that way to Northumberland,” Edith states.

 

Mary rolls her eyes, “Well aren’t I as predictable as you say? I was happy, so I was doing something nice. And we’re family, though I know it’s taken me a while to really understand what that means.”

 

There’s an instance of quiet as they looked at each other with the smallest, friendliest smiles.

 

“Well then, is everything sunshine and roses between the two of you again?” Mary hums.

 

“If I tell you, will you gloat?”

 

“Bertie broke his word to me, so I must, mustn’t I,” says Mary.

 

Edith chuckles, “He’s taken me back.” Mary straightens then, looking pleased. “So what I’m here to say is… thank you.”

 

Mary cringes and Edith feels the nasty aftertaste of saying the words.

 

“You’ve ruined it.”

 

 

 

++

 

 

 

 

She had gone to visit Brancaster, just as Bertie suggested, but she still stuck to some traditions and asked if Papa and Mama could accompany her. ‘This is rather sudden, isn’t it?’ Bertie had questioned over the phone. She’d just sorted out everything with the Drewes and was feeling in high spirits.

 

Edith could burst, ‘I think… now is the time. There’s no reason to wait any longer.’

 

‘Then Mother and I would insist on welcoming Lord and Lady Grantham to Brancaster. She’ll want to make a thing of it,’ he said, his excitement bubbling over the muffled sound of the telephone. ‘But darling, you are quite sure?’

 

‘I am, if you are,’ she says, holding her breath.

 

‘If it were up to me, we’d have been married weeks ago.’

 

And so she and her parents made their journey up to Brancaster. The trip felt quicker than it did the year before when they all went up at Cousin Rose’s behest. Though no doubt her anxiousness and excitement quickened the journey. Edith had successfully avoided all of her mother’s questioning looks, determined not to give away their good news. Meanwhile, Papa was only glad that Bertie Pelham had come to his senses and had taken Edith back, for all the baggage that she carried with her.

 

It was well in the afternoon when they’d arrived, the car pulling in through the many archways and stoned drive. In her eagerness, she’d forgotten that it would be her first meeting with Mrs. Pelham, and her insides were stoppered when she sees Bertie and his mother awaiting at the entranceway.

 

Lord and Lady Grantham exit the car first, greeting their gracious hosts, and finally Mrs. Pelham turns her eyes on Lady Edith. Her feet were rooted to the ground, but her stomach was prepared to bolt the second she sensed a threat.

 

“And you must be Lady Edith,” Mrs. Pelham states and after a moment, she stretches out her hands, in friendship. Smiling shakily, Edith grasps the woman’s proffered hands in hers.

 

“I’m pleased to finally meet you, Mrs. Pelham.” Edith says. “Bertie often speaks of you.”

 

“And saying nothing good, I’m sure.”

 

“Mother!” Bertie calls, embarrassed. They all share a laugh and the Crawleys relax – just a bit.

 

A day or so later, she and Mama were sitting in one of the libraries discussing some of Mama’s hospital business when Mrs. Pelham entered. “I wondered if Lady Edith would like to join me on a walk.” Edith and Lady Grantham exchanged looks, both acknowledging that Lady Grantham was decidedly not invited.

 

“Wonderful. I was just going to ask if it would be an imposition to use your telephone. I’d like to check in to the village hospital,” Cora responds easily and Edith tries to quell the feeling of panic upon hearing her mother’s plans to abandon her.

 

“I’d love to,” Edith accepts graciously. She bids her Mama farewell with a kiss and says. “Don’t be too long, or Papa will be cross when he catches you worrying about the hospital.” Mama sends her a look to bid her good luck and watches as Edith leaves to retrieve her coat.  

 

It was early winter, but the weather in the area was still fair. Edith took it as a hopeful sign of good things to come. Though she had met Bertie on a wretched, cloudy day out on the shoot, and the result has been more than satisfactory. Mrs. Pelham was rather quiet on their walk, and Edith hopes that she hadn’t jumped the gun. Perhaps this was the moment Mrs. Pelham would chase her away, far from her precious son so that he could be unburdened of a floozy like her. So he wouldn’t be saddled with a child that wasn’t his own, to face the criticisms of his peers whenever the topic of Marigold was brought up.

 

“You might’ve guessed I’ve asked you out here with me so we could talk. Earnestly.” Mrs. Pelham begins. Edith only nods, patiently waiting for her to say what they both knew needed to be said.

 

“Frankly, I was pleased to hear that my son had caught the eye of the daughter of an Earl. You know my Bertie. He isn’t a particularly interesting man. With a heart of gold, but he isn’t what you would say ‘a catch’.” The older woman continues. “Then I had read that article you wrote. It was quite a shock to the system. Only then did Bertie admit to having known before – and that he had broken ties with you. He’d skirted my questions when I asked why he hadn’t asked you to Peter’s service.”

 

Edith swallows hard, stopping their stride. “He couldn’t forgive me for lying to him. I was certain that I’d ruined my chances.”

 

“If I had my way, you would’ve,” Mrs. Pelham says rather bluntly. “I’m sure you understand the fragile nature of the succession. A third cousin of the heir inheriting all of Brancaster.” Of course Edith understood. Downton was in a similar upheaval with the death of Patrick before everything with Matthew was settled. “Bertie being involved with a woman with a child out of wedlock… the talk could destroy him. And there you go off, telling the whole world.”

 

Edith flushes then, bowing her head under the scrutiny. She had no way of knowing Bertie would come around – or if he would have – if she hadn’t written the piece. If she were truthful, she can’t regret what she did. It did her good to take that load off her chest, and while it may have kept Bertie away, she couldn’t trade being content on openly claiming her daughter.

 

“I have to thank you.”

 

She looks up sharply, her mouth gaping and she’s sure she presents an awful image of a daughter-in-law to be. “What?”

 

“Bertie really must’ve been speaking poorly of me if I can shock you that much,” Mrs. Pelham squares her shoulders. “Brancaster has been on rather shaky ground for the past ten years. When Peter became the Sixth Marquess, he did very little with the upkeep. He whisked off to other countries here and there, and eventually he would spend more time away than he did at home. Bertie’s father was the agent before he died. Kept the whole place running without Cousin Peter, but an agent can only do so much.”

 

She and Edith had started walking again, following along a small river. “There was always talk about the kind of man Peter was, always in Tangiers… always putting off his marriage to Adele.” Bertie had never explicitly said, but Edith had understood. “With your candid acknowledgement of your daughter, it will do away with the rumors. Brancaster has had enough of them. It’s been hard to say who of our neighbors have truly stayed our friends, but with you, it will be easier to sort out. Whoever does not accept you as the Marchioness does not have Bertie’s best interest at heart.”

 

There is a curious tone in Mrs. Pelham’s voice now, and Edith tries to discern who she really spoke of. “I don’t think I understand you.”

 

Mrs. Pelham sighs. “The succession has been hard on Bertie. He’d been terribly unhappy, and I attributed it to Cousin Peter’s death. Then he runs off to London – to see you, I later learned – and he returns with a brighter countenance than even before news of Peter. It was you.

 

He says he proposed and that you’d accepted. I was so terrified at the idea of you and what it would mean to Brancaster’s reputation, I tried to convince him to break with you. I was certain he would listen to my council, he always did. But there was a look in his eye, a bold determination and suddenly he seemed a stranger. He wouldn’t give you up, even if it meant breaking with me instead.” Mrs. Pelham flung her arms out in front of her. “With me! His mother!”

 

“Mrs. Pelham, I really didn’t want to come between you,” Edith confesses, stressed to hear that Bertie had had a row on her behalf.

 

“You haven’t,” she responds. “Because I won’t let it. You’re a sweet girl, Lady Edith. I see that now. I see why Bertie would rather turn on me than to let you go, though I’m not particularly happy about it. But he’s a man grown, and worse yet – a man in love.”

 

Edith smiles then, unyielding and free. “I love him, too.”

 

Mrs. Pelham nods. “I’d be a fool to stand in the way of it. I’ll always be worried for him – for Brancaster. But with you two at the helm… we have a fighting chance.”

 

The pair share a genuine smile, glad that what needed to be said had been said – even if it wasn’t what Edith had predicted. Mrs. Pelham loops her arm through Edith’s and whispers mischievously, “Now do tell me about this hospital drama your mother mentioned.”

 

Edith does her best to keep from groaning. “Oh, it’s all a rather dull affair, honestly…”

 

 

 

++

 

 

 

“A wedding in Northumberland would be rather dreary given the season,” Mary comments during tea. While normally Edith would return the remark with a quip of her own, it was not an instinct she acted upon recently.

 

“I thought the same, but Mrs. Pelham insists the wedding be at Brancaster,” Mama responds, sitting next to Mary on the settee. “She’s certainly a force to be reckoned with.” She glances over at Edith in sympathy.

 

“But a force for good, I think,” Edith says. “I’m only relieved she hasn’t set her sights on me.”

 

“We can all be thankful for that,” Papa comments from his chair. “I do agree with her intentions. Make a show of it. It’ll solidify Bertie’s authority as the new Marquess.”

 

Mary sets her cup on its plate, “Let’s hope they’re being realistic. It takes a great deal to change people’s prejudices.”

 

“I’ve changed yours, haven’t I?” Edith can’t help the curve to her lips.

 

“Give me some credit,” Mary snaps. “I’m more modern-thinking than you realize. I am the agent, aren’t I?”

 

“Only by force,” Tom pipes from Edith’s side.

 

Mary’s smug. “Exactly.”

 

The family shake their heads, but Edith smiles. “I think Sybil would be proud, to see us now.”

 

“She is. I’m certain of it.” Tom reaffirms, placing a companionable hand on Edith’s. “More of Mary than anyone else.”

 

Their sister stands, exasperated. “I’m not sure I like how you all bully me these days.”

 

“You can handle it,” Mama says gently, watching her eldest pour herself more tea.

 

Edith turns to Papa then, noting Carson’s presence in the room and Barrow’s absence. “There is something I wanted to ask you – and you, Carson.”

 

“My lady,” Carson stands at attention.

 

“How would you like it if I took Barrow off your hands when I leave for Brancaster?” she smiles genially. Carson is flabbergasted, as is Papa.

 

“I didn’t know you were fond of Barrow,” remarks Mary.

 

Edith shakes her head, “I’m not particularly. But he came to me asking. He said he’d been looking for work elsewhere for some time.”

 

At this revelation, Carson looks horrified. “My deepest apologies, my lady. It was impertinent of him to ask that of you.”

 

“Not at all, Carson. There should be some allowances, given what’s happened. I’ve even discussed it with Bertie and he says he doesn’t see a problem in it,” explains Edith. “Whatever it is that brought Barrow so low here that he should make an attempt on his own life, I think we ought give him the opportunity to escape it.”

 

“That sounds quite fair,” Papa agrees. “Carson?”

 

“If it pleases Your Lordship,” Carson acquiesces.

 

“Well Georgie certainly won’t be,” Mary says. “You’ll have to fight him if you want Barrow.”

 

Edith puts on a frightened expression. “I’m positive I’ll lose then.”

 

 

 

++

 

 

 

Lady Edith couldn’t seem to concentrate on Christmas, so the day comes and goes, and it was less than a week until her wedding on New Year’s Eve. She returns to Brancaster ahead of her family to work with Mrs. Pelham on the wedding arrangements, though she’s completely happy with allowing her future mother-in-law full reins on the planning.

 

“I’m just happy there’s a wedding at all,” she shrugs, leaning a shoulder against Bertie as they sat quietly in the sitting room following dinner.

 

“But you are pleased with everything?” Bertie asks. “You shouldn’t let her have her way so easily. She’ll get it into her head that she runs the place.”

 

Edith laughs, “Well doesn’t she?”

 

The tips of his ears turn pink, “Is it very obvious?”

 

“I really don’t mind,” she reassures him. “And I know you’ll take charge on issues that really matter, so I’m not worried.” Bertie knows she’s speaking of his defense of her and Marigold to his own mother.  “She wants Brancaster to be a real success for you, and I do too.”

 

“With you with me, I’ll see it as a success – regardless of however anyone else thinks of it,” Bertie smiles and leans in for a kiss.

 

“I don’t suppose this is all really happening?” Edith delicately whispers, their foreheads hovering close to each other.

 

Bertie brushes his fingers lightly along her ears, cupping her jaw gently as if she were some fragile porcelain doll. “If it’s been a dream, I would gladly stay in it.” She hums her agreement.

 

“In a day’s time, we’ll be driving you from your own home,” Edith reminds him, sheepishly. They’d arranged it so he’d stay with an old chap – a friend from boarding school – in the village two days before the wedding. ‘We need all the luck on our side,’ Mrs. Pelham had said, and Edith acquiesces much to Bertie’s consternation.

 

‘I haven’t had much luck, so you must grant me this superstition,’ she implores.

 

‘As you say. Direct me and I shall follow,’ he’d smiled. ‘But I’ll want to greet your family when they arrive – before I’m chased off.’ He does greet the Crawleys as they file in, car after car, before the scrutinizing looks from both his mother and Lady Grantham frightened him off.

 

The morning of the big day, Edith is unable to stop smiling the entire time Baxter works diligently on her hair. It’d been a while since someone else worked on her, and she’s eager to look the part of a beautiful bride.

 

“Is it possible to be sick from excitement?” she asks and in the mirror, she sees Mary rolling her eyes behind her.

 

Mama catches her gaze in the mirror. “It’s your day. You deserve every bit the happiness you’re feeling.”

 

She pauses, taking a good look at her reflection. Edith searches for that girl in her twenties, bitter and baleful, seeking approval in all the wrong places. The girl who was hurt and pitied only herself even as she lashed out at others. She thinks of those who had people her youth – hers and Mary’s and Sybil’s – and the roles they played, to usher that spiteful girl of the past into the woman staring at back her.

 

_Patrick. Sybil. Mama. Papa. Matthew. Tom. Aunt Rosamund. Rose. Granny._

 

Family, who supported her – scolded her – loved her through her best times and worse.

_Sir Strallan. The Drakes. Michael. Barrow. The Drewes. Audrey and Laura._

 

People she’s known and even loved, who influenced her values, shown Edith her worth, encouraged her endeavors.

 

 _Mary_.

 

The only other person now – save dear Sybil – to share her history.

 

A breath shudders out of her.

 

 _Bertie_.

 

That warm feeling of affection courses through her as his loving smile came to mind. Has all her struggles led herself to him? To the man who saw her work with the magazine as a wondrous success, who denied her her own self-loathing, who fought for her love despite scandal and status.

 

 _I need you – to help me live up to my own expectations_.

 

He saw her as an equal partner in love and in their life together. Was she worthy of that? Did she deserve that happiness? She thinks of the magazine, of the people she’s wronged and made amends, of Mary who looks on with bored fondness, of Marigold who Edith was set on loving despite uncertain odds.

 

Yes.

 

She was determined to be worthy of this happiness. To deserve it.

 

Edith was ready.

 

For whatever the future may bring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt more like an ending chapter rather than an epilogue, but 3 parts is better solid number than a 4-chaptered fic. It's a good problem to have when you intended to do a 2-parter but it doubled in the end.
> 
> There were certain aspects of the Christmas Special that I raised an eyebrow at -- like the fact that Bertie unexplicably and rather irrationally wanted Edith back - no questions asked - and why on earth Edith was so aggressive to him at the Ritz. Another is the fact that the wedding was in Downton and not Brancaster, as the new Marquess getting married has more societal significance than the last daughter of the Earl getting married. Also, the fact that we got none of the confrontation between Edith and Mrs. Pelham was a complete cop-out and it was clear that Julian Fellowes was writing his easy way out of the series.
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to thank the reviewers and the 'kudos'-ers that gave their time to the fic, as it's been a long time since I've committed such a large amount of what very little free time I have to writing - a Downton Abbey fic no less. But there were aspects of Edith's character narrative that I wanted to clear up and fix and I am a much happier person have established my own "headcanon" in regards to her happily ever after. There are certain aspects of her role as the Marchioness that interest me, so I may do a future-fic expanding on those ideas.
> 
> Happy New Year folks.


End file.
